


I'm Dying Tomorrow

by Emphysematous



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Blood and Gore, Consensual Thramsay, M/M, Minor Character Death, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Ramsay is his own warning, Sleepy Cuddles, Slut Shaming, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-20
Updated: 2017-02-20
Packaged: 2018-09-25 21:55:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9847601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emphysematous/pseuds/Emphysematous
Summary: Although very much in love and deliriously happy with his secret consensual sadomasochistic relationship with Ramsay, sometimes Theon wishes he could indulge in his exhibitionist fantasies. Or just be able to kiss the man without hiding.Set in LelithSugar's consensual!Thramsay AU,  Bloodied Up!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to explore Theon’s exhibitionist side, but it proved a bit tricky when no one is supposed to know he's a masochistic pervert who has literally asked for everything Ramsay's dished out. So this happened. 
> 
> I highly recommend reading more of the Bloodied Up collection to get an idea of their dynamic, but essentially it's spun off from the canon at the start of Season Three of the show, with Theon captured at the Dreadfort. But in this version, they’re in a happy, consensual (albeit very twisted, BDSM-themed) relationship, with the torture and abuse mostly used as a cover-up to maintain their public personas and allow them to live out their perverted fantasies to their hearts’ content. Theon is (mostly) whole, with the whole cutting-bits-off thing simply the result of rumour gone wild. He does have a lot of very interesting scars, though.

I'm dying tomorrow.

I can’t forget Roose's flat, bored words. All uttered in one long stream, a rote lesson reeled off without thinking, without emotion. "Donlan and  Kift of Weobley, near Hornwood and Pellar of Fairmarket; for the crime of the repeated theft and slaughter of flocks of sheep from several farms and homesteads along the banks of the Weeping Water, and in the name of Tommen of House Baratheon, first of his name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Lord of Storm's End, and Lord Paramount of the Stormlands..."

A pause for a breath that might have been a yawn. "I, Roose of House Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort and Warden of the North do sentence you to hang from the neck until you are dead. This will be carried out at dawn." He hadn't even looked at us, had simply muttered the order as if he'd been making dinner arrangements, his pen scratching swiftly over the paper before him. And that had been that.

Pellar had screeched his craven head off, sobbing and snotting and blubbering for mercy as if Lord Bolton would suddenly change his mind in the face of tears. Kift and I had just looked at each other. He’d offered me an apologetic shrug. I’d just shaken my head. Too late now. Guards had taken us back to the underbelly of the Dreadfort, marched us past the line of cells of people awaiting their Lord's hearing and through to a second room divided into passageway and one large cell by a wall of iron bars. At the end of the passage, an unassuming wooden door lurked malignantly. They told us we would only pass through it once, and then they'd laughed.

We'd been unshackled and let loose in the big space. A generously sized skin of small beer and big crusty rolls of bread hollowed out and filled with hot and greasy mutton stew had been provided. The meal had been cheering at first - until the slow realisation dawned that this might be the last thing we ever ate. My appetite retreated, but I forced my share down anyway. I'd be fucked before I let Pellar stuff his face with my food yet again.

We sit. We wait. It's mid-aftenoon now. At dawn, Roose will hang us. Conversation is... stilted. There isn't really anything to say. We'd had a good run while it lasted; let Pellar's dogs loose on a single sheep to distract the shepherds while Kift's silently cut out a bunch from the main flock and herded them away and around the brow of a hill. Then it would be a frantic ten minutes of rolling them in dirt or rubbing them with handfuls of leaves to make them look superficially different, and then three innocent smallholders would be taking their handful of scruffy sheep into town for slaughter. By the time the loss had been noticed, the missing sheep looked for and the possibility of thieves considered, the evidence would already be so much fleece, mutton and bonemeal. It had been so easy.

And now, here we are. I'd had a feeling that it had all been a bit too simple, but we'd taken the lure of a large flock overseen by just a couple of boys and had walked right into the trap of the hidden farmers. There'd been a bit of 'local justice' before we'd been hauled off to face Lord Bolton himself. The man's icy eyes had been every bit as terrifying as the rumours had suggested.

Still. At least it had been the elder Lord Bolton, not the younger. And a hanging is a swift death. We're lucky. The gods were merciful.

Bangs. Shouts. Hollow thumps. I look up from the straw-strewn floor to see the large barred door between cell rooms creak open. A thin, dishevelled man shuffles in, dressed in homespun too dirty and stained to have a colour. His eyes rove wildly around the room, flitting awkwardly from face to face, gaze sliding down to the floor like it's hard for him to look people in the eye. His hands shake and grasp his dirty garment to him; it's held on with knotted rope. He's followed by two beefy men in Dreadfort servants' livery, one long haired and bearded, the other bald as an egg, both grunting with the effort of hauling a huge wooden chest into the room.

"There, just there." The skinny man points to a spot against the bars. "N-no, inside the cell." The gate to the cell is unlocked and Bald and Bearded wrestle the huge chest inside. The Bolton's sigil is carved into its lid and it's securely locked with a heavy padlock. We all just sit there and stare. I feel unease growing in my belly. This doesn't seem normal.

The big men shove the chest into place and stand, stretching out their aching backs. Skinny coughs. "N-no, the other w-way round. Y-you'll have to t-turn it."

"Turni' yerssel'. S'fine as i'is." Bearded snaps, seat dripping from the tip of his nose.

Skinny shuffles his feet. "I can't. And m-m'lord w-wants it the other w-way around. I can.. I can f-fetch him to oversee, if you w-want?" Bald quickly shakes his head and sets his arms to the chest again, waiting for Bearded to join him. They turn it without another murmur of complaint. Cold grips me. I know who this is, and his being here is not a good sign for us at all. Kift flaps a hand at me, his mouth open and eyes wide. He knows too.

"Z'at it?" Bearded pants and flicks his hair out of his eyes, spattering Kift with drops of sweat. There are metallic clangs and shouts from next door. Prisoners are being cuffed, shackled, marched out. A nod toward the clamour. "Where'say takin'em?"

A rapid headshake from Skinny. "M'lord w-wishes that the accompanying rooms b-be emptied. He dislikes b-being... overheard, w-while he's... w-w-working..." Broken teeth bite a chapped lip and sunken eyes squeeze shut for a moment.  Bald clucks his tongue sympathetically.

"Eef, lad. Don't think about it." He reaches out a hand as if to pat Skinny on the shoulder, but withdraws it without making contact. "None of your business, is that."

Skinny shudders. "He'll make me st-stay. He'll make me w-watch." He rocks slightly, holding his arms around himself. "He always m-makes me w-watch..." There's a silence, Bearded and Bald glance at each other and turn away from Skinny.

"Anything else, lad?" Bald asks, overly cheery. 

Skinny shakes his head. Blinks. Nods. "The b-brazier, and... the sconces."

"Right you are." They're through the door and gone before the words have finished echoing off the stone walls. Skinny glances at us again, his head wobbling on his neck. He shuffles out and we hear him mumbling to the guards in the other room.

Six men in leather and mail come in, the door to the barred wall is unlocked and they unceremoniously haul us up and shackle us to the walls by the wrists. I comply meekly, I have no wish at all to aggravate anyone in this room. Kift grunts at being roughly pulled to his feet, but also behaves himself. Of course, Pellar squirms and fights. "Get off'n me! We're in a cage! Why ya gotta chain us up n'all?"

"Lord Bolton's orders." A rumbling voice from the widest of them. Kift and I stand quietly, we grew up closer to the Dreadfort than Pellar. These are not guards you want to annoy. Behind them, Bald and Bearded are bringing in a squat metal brazier and a basket of firewood. Bald lays a fire ready for lighting, while Bearded refreshes the torches in the sconces around the room.

"Bolton's 'ad us down 'ere for hours! Why chain us now? Don't wanna spend m'last hours in chains!" Pellar is still struggling, though how he thinks he'd get his fat fists through those manacles is beyond me.

" _ Ramsay _ Bolton's orders," rumbles Wide.

"Thass'is freak slave boy, there. Reek." Bearded interjects, pointing through the door where Skinny had gone. "'E useda be a highborn lord, then our Ramsay got 'old of 'im."

"He used to be the kraken prince!" another guard adds. "Now he's the Bastard's prince of piss."

"Cut his cock off!" someone else laughs. "He dunt even know his own name!"

Bearded glances at the prisoners. "All tha'money and all tha'breedin', and look where 'e's at. What'cha think Ramsay's gonna do t'you lot?"

Bald clips him round the ear. "Shut it! Have some fucking respect. They're paying for their crimes. Don't need a shit like you scarin'em even more. Leave'm be."

"We thought that Roose-" Kift begins.

"Roose has been called to Winterfell; Ramsay will be overseeing your execution. He wants you chained and the area cleared," Wide clarifies. "He's coming down here tonight."

Pellar stills and Kift and I stare at each other. Ramsay Bolton will be executing us. My eyes are drawn to the huge wooden chest and the flayed man carved into its lid.

Fuck


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ramsay plans a romantic evening in.

Ramsay strides along the hallway, lightweight pink cloak billowing out behind him. He knows he cuts an imposing figure, broad torso enclosed in a dark grey suede jerkin with red stitching. Charcoal trousers, trim waist defined with a black belt, two daggers prominently sheathed at his hips. Keepfolk step out of his way, polite nods or curtseys are dropped as he passes. He's the acting Lord of the Dreadfort and all this is his.

Skipping down the stairs, he helps himself to a couple of apples from a basket being brought up, biting into one. It's crunchy and tart and a drop of juice rolls down his chin as he chews. His boots echo loudly on the flagstones of the great hall as he crosses its expanse, heading for the captives' stairs in the opposite corner. He whistles through his teeth as he descends, a man looking forward to a pleasant evening.

At the bottom of the stairs, the passage splits into three. A dull buzz of human life emanates from the left, while ahead and to the right are deathly quiet. Ramsay goes right, unlocks the heavy door and steps into a room lined with empty cells. He leaves the key in the inside lock and passes through the room, unlocking the second door at the end.

Three men, two of similar narrow build, though one barely old enough to be shaving, and one short and portly, are shackled in a row to the right hand wall. Ramsay nods cordially at them and slides the key into the inside lock of this door before unlocking the gate in the bars. The prisoners shift uncomfortably, each avoiding his eyes. He ignores them, takes another bite of apple and kneels in the straw to light the fire in the brazier.

For a long while, the only sound in the room is the faint crackling of the fire as Ramsay feeds it twigs and kindling, coaxing it into a strong healthy flame. The portly one starts to whimper. Ramsay ignores him - for the time being - and opens the wooden chest.  One of the prisoners sniffles slightly as Ramsay rummages around inside the chest, taking out bundles and carefully setting them on the floor. One of the bundles settles with a metallic clink. There's a strangled sob from behind him.

"Quiet, please." Ramsay's voice is reasonable, polite. "You're here to watch, not contribute." A log is added to the brazier and flecks of glowing ash rise up, extinguishing in mid-air. Ramsay pulls a large fur from the chest and drops it on the floor, then adds two more. Four heavy pillows follow, flumping softly onto the pile. Several canvas bags follow and then the chest is closed again. He spreads two furs over the chest, lays one on the floor next to it, heaps the pillows onto that.

Two wineskins are rolled out from a sheet and set neatly by the bars, along with a pair of pewter mugs. A bottle joins them, and a single jewelled goblet is placed next to it. A plate appears, and is loaded with slices of cold meat: poultry, pork and something gamey, then a bunch of grapes - of all things - only slightly bruised and wrinkled after being brought all the way up from Highgarden. Ramsay delicately arranges the food, as gentle and precise  as a lady at her needlework.

"Y'gonna torture uz, bastard?" The prisoner tries to be bold, but his voice cracks halfway through the sentence. "Tie uz up an take uz apart, piece by piece? I've heard'f you and what y'do."

Ramsay stands and turns. Takes a bite of his apple. The portly prisoner pulls at his restraints. "Y'gonna chop uz up? Feed uz to y'dogs?" He sounds drunk. It's the fear. Ramsay's met men like this before. "Can't just kill uz. Gotta make uz suffer, y'murdering bastard?" He kicks out and screams wordlessly, just making noise.

Ramsay sighs. "What is your name?"

Pellar screeches and flails wildly. "M'name's fuck you! Do what'cha want t'me. M'dead anyway." His words turn into sobs and he hangs by his wrists, broken.

Ramsay turns to the other two. "What is his name?"

There's a moment of hesitation and then, "Pellar. His name's Pellar, m'lord. And he does not speak for all of us." The man on the right trembles as he spoke.

Ramsay holds up two fingers. "Yes. Thank you. I gathered that." He steps toward the hapless prisoner. "Pellar. Yes. I'm going to kill you. I'll hang you at dawn, as my lord father decreed. Until then, you will not be harmed or even touched - providing you stay *silent*, unless spoken to." He draws a dagger. Holds the tip of the blade against Pellar's soft neck. "If you speak out of turn, Pellar, you will not speak again." He steps back, sheathes the knife. "And that goes for you, too. Understand?" The other two nod fervently.

"Good." Ramsay tosses his apple core to the corner of the room. "None of this is about you. I just need witnesses - who won't be witnesses for long." He gives them a rueful smile and goes back to his arrangements, setting the second apple on the corner of the chest, nestled into the fur.  One last survey of the scene and he nods to himself, then seats himself on the chest, crossing his legs and leaning back on the iron bars.  The prisoners studiously avoid eye contact.

"Tell me..." Ramsay begins, in a bright, conversational tone glancing back and forth between the outer two captives. "What do you know of my servant?"

A hollow silence. Ramsay rolls his eyes. "You may reply. I wouldn't punish a man for speaking when spoken to." A knife appears in his hand as if from nowhere, blade flashing in the torchlight. " _You_  however," he jabs it toward Pellar, "stay _silent_." A metallic whirl and the knife disappears again, Ramsay's hands empty and loose in his lap.

"I'll ask again." Ramsay uncrosses his legs, leaning forward. "What do you know of my servant, Reek?"

The man on the right coughs nervously. "In... in what sense, m'lord?" His voice is hoarse and he keeps his head down, studying the floor.

"In any sense!" Ramsay grins, gesturing broadly. "Tell me what you know of him, what the keepfolk are saying. Tell me anything that comes to mind." His voice lowers, becoming more sinister. "Tell me everything."

Another pause. Ramsay's eyes narrow and the knife appears, twirling, in his hand again. "He's the kraken lordling!" This from the man on the left, who is staring, transfixed, at the blade. "The Greyjoy heir. The traitorous turncoat kinslayer." He spits venomously. "M'lord captured him, enslaved him. He lost his mind and now doesn't even know his name, only that he belongs to you. M'lord."

Ramsay nods thoughtfully. "Thank you, uh?" He raises an eyebrow, questioningly.

"Kift, m'lord?" The man seems unsure, shifting from foot to foot.

"Thank you Kift. Anything else?" Ramsay twirls the knife between his fingers absently.

"He does anything m'lord tells him to." The boy on the right croaks. "Anything at all, no matter how arduous, humiliating or vile." A cough. "He won't ever run away, or betray m'lord, even when given the opportunity to do so."

"Indeed." Ramsay smiles wolfishly. "And you are?"

"Donlan, m'lord." This spoken with a quiet confidence, head up, meeting Ramsay's eyes for the first time.

Ramsay nods courteously at him. "Donlan. Go on..."

The two men glance at each other over the head of their sullen companion. "M'lord had his fingers removed... and-"

"Bastard cut his fuckin' cock off!" Pellar yells, hysteria bringing his voice up an octave. "Flayed his fingers til he begged for them to be cut off - and did the same to his shrivelled, worthless cock." He begins to laugh - or sob, it's hard to tell. "Sent his cock to his squid father as a warning not to fuck with the North." He draws breath to say something else, but chokes on his own saliva and dissolves into a coughing fit.

"M'lord offered him back to the krakens, but they wouldn't admit the cunt was their blood!" Kift raises his voice to be heard over Pellar's hacking coughs, trying to distract Ramsay before he became... violent.

"He sleeps in the kennels, and eats only what m'lord discards." Donlan offers, more quietly. "Wears only what he can find that no one else wants. Drinks out of the horse troughs. He doesn't wash so he stinks to high heaven. The cooks try to give him food or ale but he runs away from them."

"He does not!" Kift snaps.

"Does so. I seen 'im." Donlan nods earnestly at Ramsay. "I seen it, m'lord."

"'E's the bastard's fucktoy!" Pellar sings at the top of his voice. "Gets fucked up his broken, gaping arsehole all night long til the shit pours out of his backside and down his fucken' legs! S'why he fucken' stinks! S'bin fucked by the dogs, fucked by the 'orses, fucked by the whole fucking guard! That's what 'e's for - keep the soldiers satisfied." He belches wetly. "But there's a fucken' lot more soldiers in the keep these days... Too many for one hole. Bastard's out to make some more. S'gonna-"

"That's enough! Thank you." Ramsay stands and advances on Pellar. "Quiet now." He waits until Pellar's sobs have faded to soft sniffles. "Thank you, all of you. You've been most educational. I think that you'll find this evening similarly... enlightening." His lip curls into a cruel smile, making Kift and Donlan go pale.

There's a screech of rusty hinges from beyond the room. A scuff of footsteps and a weasel-faced guard comes in, dragging Reek by the wrist. "Found the cockless kraken in the stables, m'lord," he says, presenting his prize. Reek cringes, shaking, knees threatening to give way. He hides his face in his hands, the missing space on his gloved hand starkly obvious against his mud-blond hair. His cloak is stiff with thick dried stains, a vile palatte of shit, mud and blood. The guard slaps him. "Stand up, y'cunt! I ain't carrying ya!"

"Ah, thank you." Ramsay beams. "Reek, you naughty creature! I specifically told you to be here tonight. I need your assistance." He takes his servant by the upper arm. "Stand here and behave yourself," he pushes Reek into a corner, spreading his stance with nudged kicks and pushing him upright with an elbow. Reek stands stiffly as he's placed, dead eyes staring blankly ahead, retreating into himself. His cheek glows red from the slap he'd received.

Ramsay glances at the guard. "What was your name?" he asks, approvingly.

"Arth, m'lord," the weasel replies, bobbing his head obseqiously. He glances around the room, sneering at the shackled men and raising a lecherous eyebrow at the furs and pillows.

"Arth." Ramsay repeats. "Arth, would you care to stay for a while? I think you may be very useful to me.

Pellar screeches. "S'gonna murder uz! The bastard's gonna murder uz!" Reek's head snaps up, eyes wide. The other two prisoners yell at their compatriot, begging him to be quiet. Arth laughs out loud. Ramsay grits his teeth.

"Reek. Lock the doors." He grabs Reek's filthy cloak as the man scurries past and takes out his belt knife. "Pellar. I believe I told you to be silent." With his knife, he cuts two long strips from the cloak. Flakes of dried... matter... float to the floor. The metallic click of the bolt of the door sliding closed echoes around the outer room.

Ramsay bundles up one length of stained and matted fabric. "Arth, would you open his mouth for me?" he asks politely. Arth grins broadly and draws his knife. Pellar opens his mouth wide and screams. Ramsay neatly wads his mouth full of the disgusting cloth and secures it in place with the second length. Pellar splutters and gags, choking. His legs kick against the wall and his fists bunch, uselessly. He starts to turn slightly red and pants through his nose, panicking.

"I asked you to be quiet, Pellar." Ramsay says, seeming almost remorseful. "Any more outbursts and I'll have to take further action." Arth sniggers and adds a kick to the groin for good measure. Ramsay observes him, coolly. 

Reek limps back into the room and hands Ramsay the key to the outer door. "Good boy, Greyjoy." Ramsay ruffles his hair affectionately. Reek's clothes are different. Simple homespun linen shirt and canvas trousers. The main change is that they're _clean_. He looks strangely larger, when not covered in filth. More solid. More of a person. 

"Arth, would you join me for a moment?" Ramsay strolls through to the outer room, Arth scurrying hastily behind him. Theon seats himself on the fur-covered chest, removes his gloves and starts to examine his nails. There's a thump and an echoing dull thud followed by a screech, from the other room. More crunching thuds and the frantic scrabbling of boots on stone which slowly grows calmer. Then a stark silence that extends for aeons of gut-wrenching time. Theon picks up the apple and crunches into it. The prisoners glance at each other, fear mounting.

Ramsay reenters the room and locks the door behind him. "Disgusting cunt." He holds one hand away from his body, blood dripping steadily through his fingers. "Cut my knuckle on his fucking teeth," he mutters. Pellar screeches again through the gag, writhing and clanking in his restraints in a frenzy. Ramsay's lip curls in distaste and he strides toward the portly man. "Shut. The fuck. Up." The heel of his hand pounds into Pellar's forehead, slamming his skull back against the stone wall. Blood from Ramsay's hand spatters over them both. Pellar gives a muffled groan and flops, hanging loosely by his wrists. "Thank you."

Turning away, he pours himself a generous mug of wine from a skin and drinks deeply, holding his bloodied hand away from his good clothes. Theon slides off the chest and onto his knees, taking Ramsay's hand in his own and softly licking at the dripping blood.

There's a clink of chains as the prisoners look on, horrified and confused. Theon glances at them and his lips curve into a slight smile as his solicitous licks turn into gentle kisses. He takes Ramsay's middle finger into his mouth and sucks on it, tongue flicking out and licking at the pad of the fingertip. Ramsay drains the wine and pulls his hand back, examining his cleaned wound. He ruffles Theon's hair again. "Such a good boy."

Theon remains kneeling, licking traces of blood from his lips like a particularly satisfied cat. He grins widely at the prisoners and gives them a little wave, all ten fingers wiggling, and winks. Ramsay snorts. "Stop being such a tart, Thee."

Theon pouts melodramatically. "But it's so much fun..." he whines, then blows a kiss at the prisoner on the right. "And he might be pretty, under all that scruff."

Ramsay turns to regard the boy again, eyes narrowed. "Maybe," he accedes, "But he's not here to be pretty." He starts to unbutton his jerkin, revealing a pale grey linen shirt underneath. Theon stands and helps him out of it, tossing it casually to the corner. Ramsay looks up at him, tilting his head back just a fraction. When he's not being Reek, Theon is a touch taller and Ramsay enjoys the physical difference between the personas.  He smiles and reaches  to kiss him, holding him by the hips. Theon leans into his body, pressing against him, mouth hungry for kisses, reaching up to undo his shirt.

"Mmph," Ramsay extracts himself, grabbing Theon's wrists before he can undo more buttons. "Calm down. We've got all night." He steps away and pours another mug of wine. "Come and eat." He holds up the plate, invitingly. Theon pouts again but plops down onto the floor, leaning against the chest, and picks at some food. Ramsay strokes his hair and pours brandy into the goblet. They share it, passing it back and forth between them. Ramsay hand-feeds Theon slices of meat and chooses the most intact of the grapes for him.

The whole time, the two conscious captives watch in silence. Rapt. Bewildered.

Sated, Ramsay stretches back with his hands behind his head and observes them, a half-smile curving his lips. "So. I suspect you have questions? You may ask." He ignores Theon, who crawls to his feet and starts to unlace and remove his boots for him.

The prisoners glance at each other. "That's Reek?" Donlan manages, after starting but rejecting several different sentences.

Ramsay smirks. "Yes indeed. This is my very own little freak, Reek. Show them, Reek." He nudges Theon away from him with a toe.

Theon's shoulder's hunch and his whole body seems to fold in on itself, his limbs curling up under him in a protective crouch. His head tilts at an awkward angle and tremors make his teeth chatter. He begins to hastily polish Ramsay's boots with the corner of his shirt, moving stiffly and awkwardly, one eye always looking toward Ramsay, awaiting another instruction - or another kick. Ramsay waves a hand in his direction and Reek flinches, biting down on a yelp.

"...and Theon?" Ramsay prompts, helping himself to more grapes. Theon rises fluidly, standing tall and broad. He steps confidently over to the chest and flops onto it, one leg thrown loosely over Ramsay's shoulder. He takes a grape out of Ramsay's fingers and eats it, grinning nonchalantly at the prisoners.  Ramsay snorts. "Very dramatic, Thee."

"You wanted a fucking demonstration." Theon grumbles happily, stretching out so that his shirt rides up his body, revealing bruised hipbones and the outline of his erection. Ramsay runs a hand up his body, from knee to thigh, palming over his cock and pushing his shirt up further. Theon grabs his hand and returns it to his canvas-enclosed cock, lifting his hips for more friction.

Ramsay swats him across the cheek in a light slap. "Stop being so impatient!"

Theon huffs, all limbs going limp in a frustrated flop. "I hate it when you bat at me. If you're going to hit me, fucking hit me; don't tease."  His hand trails up the back of Ramsay's head. Grabbing a handful of hair, he pushes Ramsay's face toward his crotch. "Come oooooon..." he whines. "You had wake-up head this morning. This is so unfair."

Ramsay disentangles himself and sits cross-legged on the floor like a storytelling minstrel in front of the sprawled Theon. "Gentlemen, may I introduce Theon of House Greyjoy, heir apparent to the throne of the Iron Islands, formerly ward of House Stark, Captain of the Sea Bitch, Prince of Winterfell - for all of ten minutes- ow!" Theon had kicked him in the back for that. Ramsay blows a kiss at him and continues. "Master of Poor Decisions, Complete Failure of a Kinslayer, but Rumour-Monger of Majestic Proportions, allegedly the Most Despised Northern Lord in History and possibly the _best_  cocksucker north of Volantis; now known as Reek." He gives an elaborate seated bow. "Thee, these are Kift and Donlan and their aggravating friend Pellar. Your captive audience."

Theon sits up, lips pursed in annoyance. "Excuse me! Just when were you south of Volantis?"

"What?" Ramsay seems genuinely nonplussed. "Oh. No, Thee, I was referring to the pleasure houses; the trained whores who-"

"Oh really?" Theon interrupts, crossing his legs crossly. "And how many pleasure house whores would let you fuck them unconscious, wake up and ask why the fuck you stopped? Or let you carve your name into them and come back for another go? Eh? Or ask you to make you eat horseshit in front of the entire keep? Or-"

"Yes, yes, I get the idea." Ramsay shakes his head and scoots over to lay a kiss on Theon's thigh. "You are _very_  special, sweetness. Unparallelled anywhere in the world."

"Should think so too..." Theon grumbles, but he reclines again, mollified.

Ramsay flashes a small, slightly embarrassed smile at the captives. "As you can see, Theon is far more interesting - not to mention fucking cheeky - than the keep would ever imagine." He runs his hands over Theon's body again, once again pushing his shirt up, stroking at the scars on his ribs. Theon takes him by the wrist and directs his hand back to his cock. Ramsay rolls his eyes and obliges, palming him softly through his trousers.

"Any other questions?" he asks, as if this entire situation is completely normal, his hand still stroking away.

Kift goggles and stammers, trying and failing to actually form the words of a question. Instead, he makes a loose fist and rocks his wrist in the universal gesture for wanking.

"Oh yes!" Ramsay beams, clambering to his feet. "I wondered when that would come up. His reputation does precede him."

"Ram..." Theon growls, rolling onto his stomach.

"Don't be shy, sweetness." Ramsay points two fingers at him and then at the floor. Theon's lips twitch. "Yes, I had to admit that I'd heard about it before I met him too and was pretty skeptical, but... well!" He pokes at the fire in the brazier, adding a couple more logs. Behind him, Theon is pulling off his shirt and begins to unlace his trousers, turning his back to the onlookers.

Ramsay refills a mug with wine and takes a deep swallow. "The first time I saw it it was a revelation, I'll tell you." He ambles over to Donlan, sipping at his wine, and leans on the wall next to him. "It was... astonishing. Frankly, I'm still amazed. Gods know where he keeps it." He offers the mug to the prisoner, who eyes him warily. Gently, Ramsay holds the mug to his lips and tilts it for Donlan to take a sip. Before them, Theon's trousers drop to the floor. Ramsay clicks his tongue appreciatively. "Good, eh?" He raises the mug as if toasting. Winks at Donlan. "Tart. Nice vintage."

Passing the baffled captive, Ramsay pauses for a moment to lay two fingers on Pellar's neck - just checking. He continues past the odious man and offers Kift a sip of wine as well. Theon shyly turns around and sits back down, fully naked. Awaiting instruction. Ramsay grins conspiratorially at Kift. "That's a sight to behold, eh?"

"I... I..." Kift stammers. "But... But you cut it off!"

"Sorry?" Ramsay asks quizzically, finishing off his wine, his face a mask of polite puzzlement.

"He did not cut my fucking cock off!" Theon almost shouts, fists clenched in frustration. "He. Did. Not. Cut. My. Cock. Off." He glares at the prisoners, rising to his knees to demonstrate said member to them. "He said it as a fucking joke once, and then never fucking retracted it. The _bastard_."

Both prisoners visibly recoil at the word, shying away from Ramsay who simply goes to pour himself more wine. Kift stammers some more. "But... But he sent it to the Krakens. They've got it in a box!" Donlan nods, murmuring the words again in affirmation.

" _A_ cock was sent to them, but fucking wasn't mine." Theon grabs his cock and thrust his hips forward. "Does this look unattached to you, shithead?"

Ramsay coughs quietly, choking on a mouthful of wine. "Gods, Thee, don't even... Ugh, the _idea_..." He shudders. "I really am very sorry about the whole thing."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah..." Theon grumbles, sitting back down again.  "So you say."

"Squidling, what do you want me to do?" Ramsay spreads his hands. "It's out there. I can't deny it without making people ask awkward questions." He moves to kneel on the fur at Theon's feet, one hand trailing down his body to wrap around his cock. "I'm sorry and I'm trying to make it up to you, okay?" He bows his head to kiss the tip, flicks his tongue out to lap at the underside and suck gently at the head. He looks up, pale eyes staring through dark lashes. "I love you."

Theon rolls his eyes. "Ugh, get up, you romantic twat." He pulls Ramsay up by the hair and kisses him deeply. Ramsay wraps him in a hug kissing his neck and the curve of his jaw. His hand goes back to Theon's cock, tracing fingers softly up and down its length. Behind them, there's a stifled groan.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A slight distraction, and then porn.

Ramsay's head whips round. "Is that cunt waking up?" He glares at Pellar, advancing on him with knife in hand and narrowed eyes. Pellar is still slumped, hanging from his wrists. Ramsay lifts his head by the hair and lets it fall heavily back to his chest. He checks for a pulse again. Nods.

"Uh, Ram?" Theon is grinning, leaning back easily against the metal bars. He points at Donlan, who is raising a knee protectively, eyes screwed shut, head bowed.  Ramsay cocks his head and glides over to the sweating captive.

"Enjoying what you're seeing, honey?" he asks, voice sultry and laden with sugar and ground glass. Donlan whimpers, trying to turn his body away. Slowly, deliberately, Ramsay traces the tip of his knife down the front of Donlan's trousers, following the line of a trapped erection.

"Ever had your cock sucked, kid?" Theon calls from his perch on the fur-covered chest, unashamedly touching himself. He and Ramsay exchange a long look, Theon's head slightly cocked. Ramsay gives the slightest of nods.

Ramsay eases the blade under the lowest of the laces. It takes terrifyingly little effort for that edge to slice through the cord with a soft, cottony _sneff_. "Don't be shy, now. We're all friends here," he murmurs, a warm smile curving his lips. His eyes are firmly on Donlan's face, not watching what he's doing as his knife cuts through another cord. The Boltons' blades are _sharp_  indeed. His voice hardens. "Answer the question, boy."

Donlan swallows and coughs. "Y- yes m'lord." His eyes are still tightly shut, but that doesn't stop him feeling the _sneff_  of another of his laces giving way.

"Tell me about it." Ramsay coos at him, his breath hot and damp against Donlan's ear. "A pretty whore, was she?"

Donan shudders. "She was my sweetheart! My Aline, from home. The kindest, loveliest..." his voice breaks into sobs.

"Lovely indeed." Ramsay agrees, soothingly. He's gliding the hilt of his knife side to side over Donlan's cock, his other hand comfortingly grasping the man's shoulder.

"She wasn't a whore!" Donlan cries. "She wouldn't even... She did... _that_  because she wouldn't... I've never... Oh gods! Fuck!" He sobs again, realising what he'd just admitted, eyes wide and large and pleading with Kift. "I... I..."

Kift shakes his head. "No shame, lad. You-"

"Shut the fuck up." Ramsay snaps, brandishing his knife at Kift. "Not one fucking word." Kift bites his lips and looks away. "Better." Ramsay nods. "So." He turns back to Donlan and unceremoniously cuts through the last of his laces. "Tell me about when she sucked your cock. Did you like it?"

“Ye- yes m’lord?” Donlan is blushing through his tears. Ramsay smiles sweetly at him, gently taking a strand of his hair and moving it aside.

He leans in. “Do you want to feel it again?” Donlan gapes at him, utterly terrified and confused. Ramsay shrugs. “Hypothetically. If you could spend one more night with your pretty maid, would you want to do it - to do _that_  - again?”

“Of course? M’lord?” Donlan bites his lip, no doubt wondering where int he seven hells the crazy bastard is going with this line of questioning.

Ramsay nods agreeably. “Well yes, who wouldn’t?” he slaps Donlan on the shoulder; just two men jesting about women. They laugh together, one cocky and confident, the other nearing hysteria. Ramsay’s face turns serious again. “What about if it was another pretty maid?” Donlan bites his lip. “Another pretty, hot, wet mouth on your cock,” Ramsay coaxes, running the handle of his knife over the boy’s crotch once again, “would you want it? If you could have it?”

A quick nod. Ramsay’s lips twitch. “So. Tell me.” His tone is jovial again, blokes gossipping in the pub. “Your Aline, that night. What did she do?”

Donlan chokes, trying to draw a steady breath but only gasping and swallowing air. "She- she- she... " he stutters, unable to talk, unable to think.

"Ram, you're scaring him." Theon pads over, barefoot and hard. He has a scarf in one hand, a mug of wine in the other. "Hey, kid. Here." He holds the mug to Donlan's lips, encourages him to drink. Ramsay takes the scarf and twists it into a thick, soft rope. "We're not going to hurt you. I promise." Theon wipes tears away from Donlan's cheeks and smiles reassuringly at him as his sight is taken away by Ramsay wrapping the scarf over his eyes, tying it firmly around his head.

"Not one sound." Ramsay warns Kift again, his voice growling close to Donlan's ear. "So, boy. Tell me about what your sweetheart did for you."

Donlan winces and tries to curl up protectively as hands open his trousers, exposing him to the room. His cock is now far from hard; fear of what the Bastard plans to do to him having undone what watching the two interact with each other had created. Gentle fingers untuck him, stoke softly at his warm skin, warm breath ghosts over him.

"Talk." A low, menacing voice in his ear. A hair's-breadth of sharp pain from a knife at his throat. Donlan keens pathetically, nose running, tears dripping down his face.

"It was our last night. Before they made us march out to fight. She... she touched me. She let me touch her." Donlan's voice is hoarse.

Hands tighten around Donlan's cock, grasping him more firmly, more rhythmically. "You touched her cunt?" He gasps, head spinning. Ramsay's voice sounds far away and all that matters are the hands on his cock and the knife at his throat.

"N- no. Just her top. Her tits." A gentle grunt as fingers squeeze him just behind the head of his cock. "But she touched me. Down... there..." His voice trails off as wet lips make contact with him, tongue sliding over, under, around. He's slick and hard and that mouth envelops him, lips wrapping all the way around and down, throat muscles hugging him. "Fuck...!" he gasps, knees weakening. Hands push his hips to the wall, steadying him, holding him in place.

"Did it feel like this?" Another growl in his ear, another tiny twitch of the knife.

"No!" Donlan squeaks out, arms straining against his restraints as that mouth begins to bob up and down his cock. One moment nearly swallowing him, then coming nearly off and showering him with fluttery kisses and tiny lapping licks. His hips jerk in rhythm, trying to capture the best sensations.

"Damn right." A satisfied voice by his ear. "Well done, love."

The mouth withdraws with a slurp, mumbles "thank you," and returns enthusiastically. Donlan's head swims. And his heart drops. Those voices... Those voices were...

Theon begins to giggle, watching the boy's expression change. He lowers his hand, withdrawing the knife from Donlan's throat. "I think he's worked it out, Ram." With a practiced jerk, he pulls the scarf off and steps back, giving the lad his sight back.

Donlan stares about him in horror. Theon, naked, hard and grinning easily at him. Which meant that... He looks down to find those icy eyes staring serenely up at him, just above lips stretched wide around his cock. The Bolton Bastard is sucking his cock. _The Bolton Bastard is sucking his cock_. Fuck. Fuck. _Fuck. Fuck_.

A muffled grunt from the left, and then horrendous screeching. Pellar has come round, and seems not to be as appreciative an audience as his co-conspirator. His eyes are wide, mouth chomping on the filthy gag, heels kicking against the wall. Theon sighs and fetches the bottle of brandy, flopping onto the chest again. The mood is ruined. He takes a tot from the bottle and glances about, looking for something.

Ramsay pulls his mouth off and nuzzles into Donlan's crotch for a moment, cock pressing up against the side of his nose. He gives the boy a wink and a kindly pat on the thigh, then leans back, stretching out in satisfaction, massaging his jaw with one hand. Slowly, his head turns to look at Pellar, as if he'd only just noticed that the man was awake. His lip curls in distaste. Behind him, Theon dips his fingers into a pot of grease. "Ram...." he calls, wiggling gleaming fingers. Ramsay is oblivious, knees cracking as he stands and moves to face the red-faced, straining prisoner.

"Ram, come on..." Theon spreads his legs, inviting. He's ignored. Ramsay stands, watching Pellar throwing his fit. Theon huffs. "Drowned fuck, Ram, get it over with. You can beat people up anytime; I've only got tonight." Theon pushes fingers wetly into himself, and yanks them out with a loud squelch. That finally gets Ramsay's attention and he glances over his shoulder at spreadeagled Theon, performing a double take at just how blatant he's being. He punches Pellar square in the nose almost idly, slamming the man's head into the wall once more. Pellar is silenced again, bar the gurgling. Blood begins to drip slowly from his nose, staining his tunic where it stretches over his belly.

Massaging his knuckles, Ramsay turns his back and adds wood to the brazier, building up more flame. He strips off his shirt and drops his trousers, kicking them to the corner. Naked, he drops to kneel between Theon's legs, reaching under his knees to yank him closer. Theon wiggles happily, wrapping his legs around Ramsay's waist and arms around his shoulders. Ramsay kisses him, kisses his jaw, sucks at his neck, bites at his shoulder; his nails scrape over Theon's back, snagging on scars and old scratches at varying stages of healing.

"Ready?" he asks, grasping his cock and slapping it on the inside of Theon's thigh.

"Ugh, so ready." Theon wriggles a little, impatient. "I've been ready for about three hours."

Ramsay smiles fondly at him. "Whore." He shuffles closer and presses his cock into Theon's arse, letting himself sink slowly in. Theon lets his head fall back, exposing the column of his throat to be nipped and sucked at as he shifts about, getting himself used to the feeling.

"Your whore." Theon rocks himself down, pushing the cock deeper into him. His legs grip tight, encouraging Ramsay to fuck him. Ramsay obliges with enthusiasm, occasionally glancing over at their audience; Kift staring steadfastly at the floor, Donlan fascinated. Theon writhes and moans and grunts like the wanton tart he obviously is, showing off for the crowd.  Ramsay hooks his arm under Theon's knee and lifts it, moving him into a better angle and dips his head to bite at his nipple. "Yessssss...." Theon hisses, clawing at Ramsay's shoulders. His hips thrust frantically, arrhythmically.

Ramsay glances over at his audience. "So you were saying that Reek is a broken man, ruined, at my mercy. Tell me..." He gestures toward Theon theatrically with one hand, the other teasing in circles around Theon's other nipple. "Does this look broken or unwilling to you?" Theon is, at that moment, bouncing himself up and down on Ramsay's cock, face flushed and shiny with sweat. "Hmmn?" Ramsay asks, cocking his head.

Silence from the prisoners. Ramsay frowns. "I asked you a fucking question," he snaps. "Don't make me come over there and get an answer from you in person." Theon whines, clinging to him as if to stop him getting up. "Do you still think he's forced to do this?" Ramsay asks again.

"No. M'lord." Donlan answers hoarsely. His trousers are still wide open and his cock demonstrates some considerable interest in what he's watching. Kift shakes his head, though it's unclear whether this is agreement or denial. Ramsay flashes them with a wide smile, trailing fingers down Theon’s arm like he was displaying a particularly fine stock animal at a fayre. Theon clings to him, thrusting frantically against him.

“Slow down, you slut." Ramsay grabs a handful of Theon’s hair and pulls his head back. "Stop that. Stop moving." Theon slows, but is still humping, whimpering to himself. "Greyjoy..." Ramsay growls into his ear, "Stop. Moving."

With a frustrated huff, Theon stills, limbs loosely wrapped around Ramsay's body. "Cruel..." he protests, without much conviction. Ramsay pulls out and pushes him down to lie on his back, stroking a hand down his belly and around the curve of the top of his thigh, his fingers gliding through the slickness between his buttocks.

"We have all night, love." Ramsay crawls over him and kisses him on the nose, "and there's so," _kiss_ , "very," _kiss_ , "much," _kiss_ , "I want to do with you."

“Can’t you just fuck me?” Theon whines, gripping Ramsay’s hips with his thighs.

Ramsay disentangles himself gently but with a firmness that lets everyone know he’s not going to be dissuaded. “I can ‘just fuck’ you any time.” He points at a spot in front of the chest. “Get on your knees.”

With an alacrity that Reek would never display, Theon rolls off the chest and lands on all fours, wiggling his arse at Ramsay invitingly. Ramsay glances at the prisoners, rolling his eyes at Theon’s eagerness with a mixture of pride and exasperation. “Turn that way,” he points, his tone that of a patient septa correcting a particularly simple child. Theon obeys, turning himself to face the audience, flashing a wink at Donlan, who blushes prettily.

Ramsay seats himself on the chest and pats his thighs, clicking his tongue like he does when encouraging his horse. Theon glances over his shoulder and crawls backward between his knees. “Good boy.” Ramsay gives his arse a friendly slap, enjoying the jiggle of Theon’s smooth flesh. Shifting himself on the edge of the chest, he pulls Theon roughly back and lines him up with his cock.

“Don’t move!” he growls as he pushes himself in, making Theon jerk in an effort to comply. Ramsay scrapes his nails down Theon’s spine. “I want to watch them watching you being a slut,” he murmurs in a low voice for Theon’s ears only, chuckling when Theon drops his face to the stone and lifts his arse into the air; he could be excellent at ‘slut’.

Donlan and Kift are forced to stand and observe while Ramsay takes his pleasure, his hands roaming over Theon’s body, stroking at scars and wounds, showing him off. Theon, to his credit, does reasonably well at holding still - though not so well at keeping quiet, his keens and moans echoing off the walls of the cell.

Ramsay casts about, looking for something to up the ante. Reaching out to the right, he grabs Reek’s discarded shoe and swings it in a resounding bouncing smack off the meat of Theon’s arse.

Theon throws his head back and rises upright, the scream he might have let out swallowed as Ramsay hauls him up and onto his lap. All that leaves his mouth is a hoarse squeak and a gasp when Ramsay wraps his flailing legs in his own and pulls them apart. Theon falls back against Ramsay's chest, his eyes fluttering closed only to open wide a moment later as Ramsay grabs his hips and yanks him down harder onto his cock. His hands clench and open, fingers stretching wide. Ramsay wraps an arm around his chest and Theon grabs onto it with both hands, his nails digging into the flesh of that muscled wrist.

Ramsay cocks his head, peering over Theon’s heaving shoulder at his captive audience. He shifts his weight and adjusts his pace, fucking up into Theon with increased intensity. Donlan is staring openly, all pretence of being horrified or even scared stripped away in his fascination with Theon’s performance. Theon begins to moan, small breathy yelps escaping from him - entirely unbidden. One of his hands slides down his body, grasping at his own belly, dropping further to claw at the inside of his thigh.  

Ramsay bats it away before he could grab his cock. “No hands!” he grunts into Theon’s ear, grinning broadly at the frustrated whine this elicited from him. He winks at Donlan. “Like what you’re seeing, kid?” He spreads his knees, forcing Theon’s legs further apart, holding his wrists and opening his arms wide. Theon cries out - spread open, exposed, fucked, watched - there’s no denying how much of a whore he is, how much he loves being fucked, how much he wants it, how much he likes being used, how much he’s _owned_.

The faces of the three prisoners are seared into his mind’s eye. Their disgust, horror, outrage, arousal at how much of a twisted, fucked-up slut he is… _Fuck_. How broken and degraded he is. _Fuck. Fuck_. How filthy and used he is. _Fuck. Fuck. Fuck_. And worst of all: how much he enjoys it. There was no way it can be misconstrued. His cock is rock hard, his hair dripping with sweat, his breath ragged and fuck. _Fuck_. He’s going to come. Ramsay’s going to make him come, getting fucked in the dungeon’s of the Dreadfort, with three strangers watching him, wanting him, judging him, _despising him_.

His body shaking, Ramsay reaches around him and palms his cock, trapping it between the calluses of his hand and the tautness of his own belly. “Come, you fucking whore,” he growls into Theon’s ear, stroking his thumb over the head of his cock. “Slut.” Theon quivers, panting as Ramsay fists him harder. Ramsay feels the tension in his body and raises his voice to include their audience. “Come, you cunt!” There’s a clink and a hint of a sharp intake of breath from the captives and Theon - as always - does as he was told.

Ramsay holds Theon’s trembling body tightly as he cascades through the aftershocks, his limbs loose and twitching. Cool hands stroke softly at Theon’s hot sides and over his damp shoulders. Soothing mumbled nothings are murmured into his ear and he’s lifted gently to curl up on a fur on the floor. Ramsay covers him carefully, and sits next to him, chest heaving, stroking the hair out of Theon’s eyes. He picks up a cup of wine and drinks deeply, nodding cordially at the captives as if offering a toast. The plate of food is at his elbow and he picks out the roast leg of some kind of fowl, chewing on it almost absent mindedly while rubbing gently at Theon’s hip.

From the wall of shackles, Kift coughs, a tickle turning into a choking fit. He’s obviously trying desperately to suppress it, but a cough is generally a thing that doesn’t like to be shushed. His face turns deep red and the breaths he manages to snatch between coughs are strained and wheezy. His eyes are wide, panic setting in. With a frown, Ramsay rises and goes to him - nude - offering a a sip of wine with genuine concern.

When the coughing fit doesn’t pass, he quickly fetches a key and unshackles one of Kift’s hands, handing him a skin of water and standing by him until he calms and breathes easily again.  Drinking more water, Kift offers an abashed “thanks,” lowering his eyes awkwardly from the bastard lord’s bare arse.

Ramsay slaps him on the shoulder companionably, utterly unabashed. “Can’t have you dying before dawn, after all,” he grins, making Kift’s face pale.  “Roose would be so annoyed with me.” He glances round the room - Pellar still out cold, Donlan watching them wide-eyed, Theon now sitting up wrapped in a blanket and nibbling at a slice of game pie. “Refreshments!” he announces brightly, clapping his hands.

Theon sips at wine while Ramsay bustles around the room, unlocking one of Donlan’s wrists as well and offering food and wine to the prisoners as attentively as any highly-trained house servant at a grand feast - though a great deal more naked. Cautiously, the two men allow themselves to be fed and are supplied with cups of wine and a bottle of brandy to share, which Ramsay encourages them to try with a breezily casual “last chance!” that makes them blanch.

Standing in the middle of the room with a plate of tidbits and a goblet of wine, making smalltalk about home distillation, he could almost be at a stuffy formal gathering, if it wasn’t for his bare arse and stiff cock. Theon crawls on his hands and knees toward him and sits prettily on his heels at his feet. With barely a downward glance, Ramsay grasps him by the hair and guides his face toward his groin. Theon opens up and starts sucking - ever the whore. Ramsay continues his story about freeze-distilling cider during winter, apparently utterly oblivious to Theon’s ministrations.

All told, it was turning into a bizarre yet pleasant little social event: plentiful food and booze, good conversation… And then Pellar groans, coughs up snot and blood and blearily opens his eyes.

It must have been a shock, expecting to be tortured at the hands of the Bolton Bastard, only to wake up in the middle of a dinner party with your co-captives sharing brandy and meat pies while the naked host is being enthusiastically sucked off by an equally naked serving boy. The dried blood down his front and the iron shackles create a sharp juxtaposition.

Coughing, Pellar blinks around himself and spits blood. He’s ignored by Theon and Ramsay, but Donlan and Kift fall silent, watching him warily. Taking in the scene, Pellar makes a gagging noise and spits right at Ramsay’s feet.

“Disgusten’! Fucken’ cunt!” His slurred voice breaks through Ramsay’s monologue about pairing spirits with foods. “S’not natural,” he spits again, “fucken’ _freaks_!”

Ramsay cocks his head, face all polite civility as if he was talking to a rather drunken guest at a tourney. His hand on Theon’s head tightens just a fraction, keeping him in place on his cock, keeping his action going.

Pellar launches into a tirade. “World’s gone fucken’ mad! Gotta bastard incest brat on the throne; got Freys wanderen’ around ‘ornswood like they own the fucken’ place; got a burning pile where Win’erfell should be; got fucken’ ‘ighborn lords bein’ sick deviants!” He spits again, this time catching Theon’s thigh. Ramsay physically holds Theon in place by the hair, stopping him from getting up.

“S’not fair!” Pellar screeches, “Got an ‘onest man like me who worked fucken’ hard all ‘is godsdamned life bein’ fucken’ hanged over a few cunten’ _sheep_  and this disgusten’ _freak_  is livin’ the ‘igh life in a fucken’ castle, sucken’ pricks and benden’ over to get _fucked_  by every sick bastard cunt who looks at ‘im! S’not _right_! S’not natural! Freak! Freeeeeak!” He kicks out at Theon, all limbs flailing, foam gathering at the corners of his mouth, continuing to screech almost incoherently at him.

Ramsay exhales angrily through his nose and strides away leaving Theon kneeling awkwardly behind him. He’s back a moment later with his belt knife and a grim seriousness in the set of his jaw. Theon starts to scrabble away - he’s seen that face before - but Ramsay grabs him by the back of the neck and stands him up, holding him tightly by the wrist.

“Pellar,” his voice is clear but Theon can hear the growl just under the surface, “you are being disgracefully rude.” He flashes his terrifying bright smile. “Now, apologise to my beautiful boy.” He kisses Theon’s knuckles.

“ _FREAK_!” Pellar screams. “Disgusten’ half-man! Twisted, filthy cunt of a bastard! Should `be fucken’ _ashamed_. Should be crawlen’ in the muck and filth where ‘e belongs!” He spits again, face twisted up with hatred. Ramsay steps to stand right in front of him and shoves Theon down to his knees again, gesturing briefly at him. Theon hesitates for a moment before going back to his blowjob.

Ramsay runs his knife down the front of Pellar's jerkin, taking no particular care to avoid cutting too deeply. The man's screams echo around the stone room but brought no aid: this was the Dreadfort, after all. With his clothing cut open, his vast blubbery belly is revealed; its paleness marred by the glistening red streak down its centre line. Ramsay runs his palm through the blood, smearing it across Pellar’s white skin, then swipes his bloody hand roughly down Pellar’s red, sweaty face. Something finally clicks in the fat man’s brain and his angry screeches turn to tearful crying.

“Don’ ‘urt me, m’lord. ‘M jus’ a man down on ‘is luck. Don’ ‘hurt me, please m’lord, please, please, please…” Tears track pale lines through the blood streaks on his face. Ramsay glances down at Theon, cocking his head slightly. Pellar snorts. “Don’ make me suck a prick m’lord. I can’t, I couldn’t. S’disgusting, s’unnatural. I’m a man m’lord! I fuck like a man ‘n if I have to die, I want to die like a man, not like a _freak_!” Theon’s eyes narrow, and he gives the smallest of nods. Pellar dissolves into a wave of snivelling coughing, still babbling on.

Ramsay pauses to enjoy the dual pleasures of Theon’s expert mouth on his cock and the sobbing and begging of his prisoner. Winding one hand into Theon's hair, Ramsay pulls him like a marionette into a better position and lazily slices open the underside of Pellar's gut with his beltknife.

Intestine, bowel and blood tumble awkwardly to the floor like an armful of dirty laundry. Pellar finally, mercifully goes quiet, staring down at his deflating abdomen in disbelief. He looks up at Ramsay in shock. The smell of butchery fills the air.

“I asked you to apologise to my boy, Pellar,” Ramsay says, voice quiet and conversational. His hand strokes Theon’s cheek and jawline; possessive, loving.

“M’sorry m’lord,” Pellar whispers, face chalkily pale.

Ramsay shakes his head sadly. “Too late.”

His arm whirls and he slices Pellar’s neck open. Arteries jet out their blood, spraying Ramsay's hand and arm before he can pull back out of range. Theon yelps but is held firmly in place despite the rain of hot blood. Ramsay is grinning toothily, watching the life fade out of Pellar’s dull eyes. His chest heaves as he inhales the scent of metal, meat and shit. His grip on Theon’s hair tightens and he comes quickly, eyes bright, red right hand held awkwardly out to the side in a cursory attempt to keep the gore away from them both.

Theon swallows thickly and sits back on his heels, eyeing the corpse with distaste. "You were supposed to hang him."

Ramsay shrugs, flicking blood off his hand. "I can still hang him."

“Is there any point?” Theon stands and finds a scrap of cloth and some water to wipe himself down with.

Ramsay uses Pellar’s torn jerkin to clean his blade. “Roose told me to hang him, so I’m fucking hanging the cunt.” He throws the knife at the table where the blade sinks an inch into the surface and goes to put more wood in the brazier, helping himself to a couple of slices of meat on the way.

Behind them, Donlan and Kift exchange shocked glances. “You… you killed him!” Kift blurts out.

Theon actually bursts out laughing. Ramsay cocks his head. “Yes?” He sits down on the wooden chest and pours more wine.

“But you… you were being _nice_!” Kift stares at the disembowelled and exsanguinated corpse of his recently late gang-mate. Donlan looks like he’s about to vomit. “I thought… I thought you weren’t… I thought it was all a… lie?” Kift looks up at them, confusion and pleading in his eyes.

“He’s a Bolton.” Theon shrugs. “And the guy was a cunt. A _condemned_  cunt, at that.” He moves to sit at Ramsay’s feet, helping himself to a couple of only slightly wrinkled grapes.

“He called Theon a freak.” Ramsay growls through a mouthful of pheasant. “Repeatedly. And then didn’t apologise.”

Kift goggles at them. “But _you_  call him a freak! I’ve heard you!”

Ramsay takes a mouthful of wine. “He’s mine to call what I want. Only mine. Only me.”

Theon nuzzles his face against Ramsay’s thigh. “Only yours,” he murmurs, a smile curving his lips. Ramsay squeezes his hand, drawing him up to sit next to him so that they can share a kiss.

Donlan coughs. “And you… you like it?”

Theon crosses his legs, lips pursed as he thinks. “I don’t really like seeing it. But I like the protectiveness. I like seeing him powerful. I like knowing that he can and _will_ ; that the threats of violence are real, the risk is real.” He glances across to Ramsay, turns back to the prisoners. “I’d probably prefer not to be quite so close to the actual… act, but it’s a part of who he is and I love him.” He laughs and takes Ramsay’s hand in his own. “I love you! I’ve never said it in front of anyone before. I love you, Ram.”

“I love you too, you freakish little squid.” Ramsay pulls him into an embrace. They kiss again. Slowly. Enjoying each other. Enjoying being open about themselves for once.

“I was actually talking to m’lord…” Donlan mutters, mostly to himself. Ramsay opens one eye and snorts, breaking into chuckles.

“Oh.” Theon actually looks embarrassed. He holds his hand out to Ramsay, offering him the floor. Ramsay shakes his head, still laughing. “Well, yes. He likes it too. Did you really think that _all_  the rumours were false? He’s a fucking Bolton. You’re in the godsdamned Dreadfort. They’ve been outright murderers for centuries and countless generations. That’s not something that comes about without a pretty strong inclination.”

Both captives shudder. “He enjoys killing people…” Kift mutters, hardly daring to believe it, even though just ten hours ago he had believed it with all his heart.

“He likes power and pain. I like power and pain. We just both like them from different sides. It works.” Theon throws a leg over Ramsay’s thigh, almost climbing into his lap, yawning widely. Ramsay wraps his arms around him and kisses him, hands stroking his body, occasionally gently scratching off a fleck of dried blood. Theon sinks into his body, clinging to him with unashamed affection. The prisoners fall silent, turning away as much as they can, offering the couple what scant privacy they could, under the circumstances.

“Sleepy squid, love?” Ramsay murmurs at him. Theon nods, trying to hold back a yawn. “Curl up, I’ll sort things out in here.” Ramsay lifts him down onto the fur on the floor, kissing his forehead tenderly, like any loving man and his wife. Theon rolls himself in furs and blankets, settling in while Ramsay searches out trousers and belt from amongst the scattered items all over the cell.

“Ram?” he asks when he’s just a face and fingertips peeking out of a nest of bedding. “Thank you. For this. For, all of it.”

Ramsay stretches, pushing the tail of his belt through its keepers with one hand. “Anything for my Thee, you know that.” He tips the crumbs of food into the brazier, making the fire spit and crack as the fat hits the flames. “I love you.”

“Mmmn,” Theon smiles sleepily, his eyes falling closed. He sighs and lets his body relax, safe with Ramsay keeping watch over them both.

Quietly, Ramsay packs up the remains of their feast and festivities, tucking everything back into their bags and into the wooden chest, until all that remains from their evening are the furs that Theon’s sleeping in and a handful of beautifully balanced daggers which he cleans, sharpens and oils with a loving intensity that makes him seem once again every bit of the insane monster he’s reputed to be. Every now and then he glances at Theon and stills, his eyes softening while he watches and thinks.

The bastard has a heart


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue

In the end, the Bolton Bastard was merciful.

He’d put us through several hours of crazed hell, forcing us to watch - and take part in - some of his worst hedonistic inclinations. His mind games were dizzying; one moment he was tender and kind, the next a savage beast, then a creature of lusts and appetites. We were charmed and terrified and charmed again until we had no idea what to think or believe about anything.

Pellar was dead. The stink of his corpse testifying to that stark truth.

Reek was… a servant? A lover? A sex slave?  A lordling? A friend? We had no idea what to think. Theon had awoken, laughed and joked with his lord, and then dressed in the filthy rags he’d arrived in. And Reek had appeared. A twitching, snivelling shade of a man, terrified of his cruel and unpredictable master. Even alone, the illusion was total, no trace of Theon remaining once those clothes had been donned. It was enough to make us think that we’d imagined the whole thing.

A cell. A body. A wooden chest, carved with the flayed man of House Bolton. Two remaining prisoners, condemned to hang at dawn.

And the Bastard was merciful. He was quick.

Kift went first, led firmly by shackled hands through the ominous second door by a surprisingly quiet and sober Ramsay. They left the room. There was a creak and a thud and Ramsay was back almost immediately. Alone.

And then he came for me. I wanted to see tenderness in his eyes. I wanted to hope that he’d chosen us, chosen me, to join him and Theon in whatever games and fantasies the two wanted to play. Maybe Pellar had been right all along and we were doomed to become the Dreadfort’s playthings, set out to amuse the guard. I wanted to live.

Ramsay’s eyes showed nothing.

He unshackled me and led me through the door I would only ever pass through once. Beyond was a small room. Stone walls. Wooden floor. A noose that I only caught the briefest glimpse of before the white hood took my vision away. Firm hands held my upper arms and guided me forward. The scrape of hessian against cotton. I’d been in the room for the space of ten breaths. 

  
The floor disappeared below me with a creak.

**Author's Note:**

> I've just joined tumblr and don't really know anyone so it'd be lovely if you felt like adding me and saying hello! Find me at: emphysemation
> 
> Thank you for reading, any thoughts, ideas, requests, criticism are very eagerly received!


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